


i got this need for you forming in my beating heart

by dizzyondreams



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Banter, Bickering, Bipolar Newton Geiszler, Drunken Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, hermann is agonised, newt's business attire is not up to scratch, the 3 B's you need in every n/h fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 02:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8233741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzyondreams/pseuds/dizzyondreams
Summary: Hermann hates the part of him that has turned so soft with affection for this stupid, frustrating man. There’s no time and they’re just two men standing at the end of the world, and there’s no spare energy for this. Newton is a distraction, he is the burning centre of Hermann’s world when there are more important things and he can’t keep his hands to himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a collab with my good pal [sailer](http://sailerscrimshaw.tumblr.com/), who has the done the truly bomb art for this fic! we were discussing how good the pining and angst is for hermann and newt who can't get together during the war because No Time, and so this was born. please make sure to click the link over newt's 'heinous' t-shirt for a visual

Approximately fifteen minutes after receiving the news of their immediate transferral to Sydney Shatterdome, Newton has dug a half-empty bottle of whiskey out from the recesses of his side of the lab. Hermann supplied the shot glasses, and grimly necks back a generous measure as Newton lowers himself to sit on the floor next to him.

“At least it’ll be warm.” Newton offers, taking a shot and grimacing as the whiskey burns his throat. It is not good whisky, and Hermann is normally more of a gin drinker, but he puts it away neatly. Some times call for bad alcohol. 

Newton is right, he supposes. He pulls his parka closer around him, the chill from the concrete floor settling deep into his bones. Anchorage Shatterdome is cold inside and out, and his hip had been screaming at him for months because of it. He’d never been good at regulating his body temperature, always too skinny for extreme cold.

“And at least we’re being transferred together.” Newton adds, tipping an empty shot glass in Hermann’s direction.

“A real shame.” Hermann mutters, reaching for the bottle. “I thought I might be rid of you for good this time.”

“Shut up.” Newton says, watching him pour himself a shot. “You’d be devastated.”

Hermann doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to. Their unspoken agreement hangs in the air between them, and he chases the bitter feeling in his mouth with whiskey, enjoys the burn. 

His parka is discarded some time after that as the liquor warmed him, and he feels loose and a little silly as he watches through heavy lidded eyes as Newton removes his tie and flings it away.

“It’s gonna be a fucking nightmare transferring all my specimens.” Newton mutters bitterly, swaying slightly where he sits. “This fucking _sucks_.” He says, grinding the heel of his hand into his eye. Hermann drinks, silent next to him. 

At least they were being transferred together. Hermann muses over it in his head as Newton bemoans the definite loss of some of his samples. Another god-only-knows how many years of holding himself back, keeping himself tightly wound and in check so as not to _touch_. He drinks another shot and loosens his collar, staring at the stained concrete below him.

They’re sitting on the floor like children, drinking whiskey like drowning men and Hermann can’t stop looking at Newton. He wants to blame the warmth in his chest on the whiskey, but knows the urge to feel Newton’s stubble against his mouth is all him. Newton’s hair is a mad halo around his head from how much he’d been running his fingers through it. In some small corner of Hermann’s drunken brain he wants to run his fingers through it and mess it up more, and his mouth is dry and he wants a cigarette and he knows very well that he can’t do that. 

He loses count of how much they’ve drank, but the bottle is almost empty sitting on the ground between them and Newton is leaning into Hermann’s side to keep himself upright. He’s a silly, dramatic man and even sillier and more dramatic when drunk.

“I mean, what the fuck is Sydney, man? Am I gonna have to adapt to a whole new freaking language barrier? Because I swear, I’m a genius but I don’t know if even I can decipher that mess.”

It’s too easy for Hermann to turn his head to the side and kiss him mid-babble. Newton inhales sharply through his nose, and his hands scrabble to grasp the lapels of Hermann’s blazer to pull him closer. They end up a sprawled mess on the freezing floor, and Hermann’s dimly nervous about what he’s getting on his clean hands and semi-clean slacks, but he’s lost to the the feel of Newton’s mouth on his and his stubbly, precious face in his hands.

Newton’s hands press and pull them horizontal, and Hermann’s hip is aching from the angle and the cold concrete but Newton’s tongue is in his mouth and his thigh is pressed between Hermann’s legs. He drags his lips over Newton’s jaw, kisses down the line of his throat until he flicks his tongue over tattooed skin. Newton’s breath hitches in his chest, and Hermann can feel his pulse pounding under his lips. Newton’s hips twitch up against him, and Hermann groans low in his throat before dragging his mouth back up to meet Newton’s open, gasping mouth.

Then Newton freezes below him, turning his face away from Hermann and pressing his hands against Hermann’s chest to widen the gap between their bodies. Surprised, drunk, Hermann scrambles back, hip twinging as he sits awkwardly back. Newton sits up, hand over his mouth as he stares at Hermann, eyes wild and chest heaving. 

“Hermann.” He says, voice low and rough. “We can’t do this.” Hermann’s heart drops into his stomach. “You know we can’t do this.”

“I know.” Hermann replies, rubbing at his face as if it were that easy to erase the memory of Newton’s mouth just like that. “I know.”

“We- there’s. This isn’t a good time, Hermann.” Newton murmurs, and Hermann hates how huge and hurt his eyes look through the low light of the lab.

“There’s never going to be a good time.” Hermann says, and Newton hangs his head.

“I know.” He whispers, and doesn’t look up when Hermann makes his unsteady way to his feet with as much decorum as he can muster.

He leaves Newton on the floor of the lab, an odd mix of disappointment, anger and relief in his chest.

\------

It’s been a long day, and Hermann’s back is stiff from sitting at his desk all day working on new coding. His hand is over his eyes, which are burning from staring at screens for too long. For the first time in his life, he’s sick and bloody tired of staring at numbers, and he digs his fingers into his eyes with a growl. It’s 2023, and the war is in its final hours and he’s not getting any younger and he can’t get any relief. Hammerjaw had attacked Cabo two days before, and Newton went right out and got a tasteless tattoo of it on the back of his calf. Hermann hasn’t spoken to him since, not since Newton had proudly shown him the bloodied stylisation. 

He drags his hand down his face, bracing himself to get back to the dreaded code, the impossible job of making the Jaegers bigger, better, faster before time ran out. His gaze automatically flicks towards Newton, across the room working on a lymph node from the downed Hammerjaw. He doesn’t know when this became an automatic reaction, but Newton is staring back at him, gaze soft and unaware. When he realises Hermann is looking too, he glances sharply away, ears red.

Hermann aches somewhere deep in his chest, and he turns back to the screen rather than attempt to catalogue that ache. There’s no time for hypotheticals, no time for musing over the feel of Newton’s face in his hands, the way his warm, solid body would feel pressed close to his. The numbers are always waiting, and beyond that something much more sinister. 

Hermann glances up again, and Newton is still turned away, mouthing along to a pop song on the radio. It lights something warm and tender in his chest, and for once he isn’t irritated by the dreck that Newton regularly blasts from his tinny little radio. He tries imagining having a separate lab like he’s always threatened and a couple of times requested. He wouldn’t have Newton distracting him, but he’s struck by how surprisingly _lonely_ the thought is. He’s known Newton for ten long, frustrating years now, and can’t quite imagine his life without the silly little man in it.

He turns back to his coding with finality now, feeling vaguely melancholy. He doesn’t muse on what will happen at the chance they end this war, he can’t give himself that hope. With the way the attacks are increasing in number he’s not positive they will see 2025. He gets back into work, hoping the feeling in his chest will ease. 

Newton sings tunelessly across the lab, and Hermann feels his lips twitch up into a smile as he begins typing. The next time he looks up, a cup of tea has been placed on his desk, and Newton is whistling cheerily in the kitchen. Hermann rubs at his mouth as if that would conceal his smile as Newton emerges with a cup of coffee in his hand. Hermann nods in thanks, and Newton grins at him, that thousand watt smile, and shoots him finger guns before crossing back to his side. 

Hermann bites the inside of his mouth to quell his smile, and takes a sip.

\------

It’s gone midnight, the lab quiet and dark around them. Newton is hopped up on Hermann’s desk, watching him scrawl equations on the board in front of him. He’s knocked Hermann’s papers askew, moved his monitor and keyboard back so he can sit. Annoyance niggles in Hermann’s chest.

“For a smart guy like yourself, you really don’t use your time like you should.” Newton notes, and Hermann ignores him. “I mean, dude, like doing math for six hours a day is gonna stop kaiju wrecking shit.”

“You’re only serving to show the depths of your own ignorance every time you open your mouth, Newton.” Hermann retorts, tone clipped. Newton has been manic for the past week and a half, rattling around the Shatterdome at all hours of the night. It irritates him in that part of his brain that is reserved for all his Newton related irritations, because he knows that Newton hasn’t been taking his medication and his haphazard brain has been preventing him from doing any real work lately. He invented a new machine that he crassly nicknamed the Milking Machine, but the recent samples from Scissure have been languishing in the freezer all week. Hermann has spent the last week trying not to humour him, and debating whether crushing up his medicine and putting them in a cup of tea would be way out of line.

The equations glide onto the board in front of him, the rasp of the chalk and the taste of it on his tongue from when he’d rubbed his mouth not enough to drown Newton out. He finishes up, descends his ladder and wipes the chalk dust off onto his trousers. Newton is still talking, a buzz of noise as Hermann gathers up his papers that Newton’s knocked askew. Newton is looking at him, eyes heavy lidded and watching his every move. The back of Hermann’s neck feels hot from the attention, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the task at hand.

“Hermann.” Newton murmurs, and Hermann ignores him, reaching past him to switch his computer off. Newton smells like cigarettes and laundry detergent, and Hermann doesn’t linger. “Hermann.” Newton says again, and Hermann stops a pace away from him, fixing him with a long suffering look.

“What do you want Newton?” Hermann is tired. His eyes feel like sandpaper in their sockets, his hip is aching, a steady pulse along his side. He wants nothing more to lie down in his bed with a heat pack and _sleep_. 

Newton grins, slow and his gaze is like a laser. Hermann comes to a stop in front of him, and in the blessed absence of Newton’s chatter he realises the hush of the lab, the Shatterdome for once silent around them. Newton’s eyes are hooded, voice low when he says, “Kiss me.”

Hermann thinks of the months that he’s wasted staring at Newton’s lips, the line of his back when he’s hunched over a specimen, the nape of his neck when he was turned away. “I can’t.” He says, quiet. “We’ve been through this.”

Newton stretches out his leg to brush Hermann’s thigh with his foot. His eyes are dark in the low light, the line of his mouth amused and vaguely predatory. Hermann wants to eat him whole. “Kiss me.” He says again, and Hermann is stepping forward then, until he’s standing between Newton’s open thighs. Tugged by some invisible string that slackens and tightens with every thump of Newton’s heart. 

Newton draws him closer with a hand at the nape of his neck, and unbidden, Hermann’s hand finds Newton’s stupid stupid tie and pulls him forward into a kiss that burns with months of pent up frustration and longing. Hermann hates the part of him that has turned so soft with affection for this stupid, frustrating man. There’s no time and they’re just two men standing at the end of the world, and there’s no spare energy for this. Newton is a distraction, he is the burning centre of Hermann’s world when there are more important things and he can’t keep his hands to himself.

[](http://s1266.photobucket.com/user/Alice_Rogers/media/kisskissfallinlove_zpsmizw7b4u.png.html)

Newton kisses him like he’s the only thing in the world, his mouth hot and urgent on Hermann’s. Hermann can’t stop thinking about how they don’t have _time_ for this, his mind is a loop of Newton’s hands and the image of Scissure rising from the Tasman sea, mouth a gaping chasm of blue. 

He presses a hand to Newton’s sternum, pushes him back in a move that reminds him of the taste of whiskey and a cold hard floor in a lab miles and years away. Newton’s idiotic _shoestring_ of a tie is still looped regrettably around his hand, and Newton’s chest is warm under his palm.

“Newton.” He says, hating how ragged his voice sounds to his own ears. Newton’s gaze on him is searching, expectant. “This is wrong.”

“No, dude, it’s so good.” Newton says, sounding helpless and a little desperate. His face falls when Hermann shakes his head.

“You know why we can’t do this.” Hermann says, voice firmer than he feels. He wants so badly to dive right in, to feel the rasp of Newton’s stubble and the manic twitch to his fingers. “You know very well.” 

Newton glances away, out across the darkness of the lab. When he speaks, his voice is almost embarrassed. “This is stupid.” 

“There are people dying because we can’t stop the kaiju.” Hermann says, and when Newton trains his gaze on him he’s scowling.

“Speak for yourself.” He mutters, then, “I don’t like this _agreement_ anymore. It’s fucking idiotic. Other people have relationships in this place.”

“We are not other people, Newton.” Hermann says, and removes his hand from Newton’s chest, takes a step back. Newton looks hurt, eyes too bright.

“It’s not my fault you can’t get your calculations right.” He snaps, and Hermann feels his mouth tighten.

“Maybe I’d be able to get my work done if you weren’t conversely too depressed or too manic to focus on your own work.” He retorts, and Newton’s eyes harden. “I am not your bloody babysitter.”

“Why does it always come back to me being too crazy for you?” Newton asks, voice acidic. “Why do you constantly have to stick your goddamn nose in my business?”

“Because you _make_ it my business, Newton.” Hermann snaps coldly. He’s tired of this, tired of Newton and his argumentative nature and his tattoos and his mouth and this whole bloody war. “I’m going to bed, and so are you.” 

He turns on his heel and leaves Newton protesting to the empty lab. His chin still burns from the scrape of Newton’s stubble, and he rubs at it with chalky fingers as he leaves the lab.

\-----

Hermann resurfaces from his equations around midnight for a cup of tea and a cigarette. When he returns, he glances across at Newton, that awful knee jerk reaction he can’t rid himself of. Newton is sitting stock still at his table, a scalpel in one gloved hand, the other hand in front of him. Hermann is close enough to see the tremor in his fingers, and that sets all too familiar alarm bells ringing in his head. He crosses the lab and comes to a stop beside Newton, who doesn’t look up. A hunk of viscera from Atticon is wet and blue on the table in front of him, but it doesn’t look like Newton’s made any work on it. Gently, Hermann eases the scalpel from Newton’s hand, careful not to touch any Blue. Only then does Newton look up at him, and he lowers his other hand almost self consciously.

“Let’s get you something warm to drink.” Hermann murmurs, stripping Newton’s gloves off of him before grasping Newton by the shoulders and guiding him to the old, sagging couch in the lab. “Stay here.” He says, and Newton nods dully, brows furrowed.

He only speaks when Hermann returns with a cup of tea, frowning into it before saying, “This isn’t coffee.”

“Yes, well, I doubt you need any more caffeine in your system.” Hermann says, holding out Newton’s medication for him, raising his eyebrows until Newton rolls his eyes and takes them. He knocks them back with a mouthful of tea, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“On the contrary, I think caffeine would do me the world of good right now.” He mumbles, none of his usual bite to his words. Hermann takes a seat next to him.

“What’s the matter?” He asks, watching as Newton’s shaking hands make tremors in the surface of the tea. 

“Nothing.” Newton says. “Everything.”

“Yes.” Hermann says, patting him on the knee. “It does seem that way, doesn’t it.”

“We can’t do it.” Newton says in a small voice, “There’s not enough time or money or people. We’re gonna lose.” His voice cracks on the last word.

Hermann can’t lie to him. He can’t offer empty words of comfort that will taste bitter on his tongue, because he knows Newton is far too smart to accept them. So he just listens, a silent presence for Newton to vent to and pretends not to notice that he’s crying. 

“I’m afraid I’ve wasted my best years and sacrificed too much for something that in the end won’t matter.” Newton says, and his voice is thin and afraid. He’s staring at Hermann, eyes red and damp, and Hermann can’t get his voice out past the lump in his throat. “What if all this is for nothing, man? I haven’t done jack shit that will be worth all this if I die tomorrow, or next week, or even a year from now.”

“You’ve had good times.” Hermann says finally, lamely. Newton snorts and glances away. “We’ve had good times.” 

“I’ve spent ten years fighting a losing war and denying myself the things I want.” He mutters, hands clenched tight in his lap. The lab is quiet and dark around them, lit only by Hermann’s screens and the fluorescent lamp on Newton’s table. When Newton glances back at him, his face is lit from the side by the lamp, and his expression is so sad Hermann feels his chest tighten. “And you know, I love you, right?” He says on a shaky half sob, half exhale, and Hermann feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach. 

He looks away from the empty sadness on Newton’s face, feeling his eyes prickle with tears he refuses to shed. He looks to his chalkboards, lost to the shadows hugging the corners of the lab and doesn’t say anything. What could he say? Nothing can make this okay.

He reaches out his hand and curls it around Newton’s, fisted and shaking in his lap. Newton’s hand unfurls into his, and Hermann rubs his thumb along the back his hand, silent.

\-----

The board meeting has been happening for a good fifteen minutes by the time Hermann and Newton arrive. Their lateness is all Newton’s fault, of course, because who else could cut open their finger with their own scalpel and convince themselves that they were about to bleed out? Wound hastily wrapped up by Hermann, they hurried to the board meeting only to arrive right in the middle of one of Pentecost’s big speeches.

Shamefaced, Hermann ducks his head and sidles along the side of the room to the only empty pair of chairs, crammed close together. Newton takes his sweet time, firing a mocking salute to Pentecost, who is glaring, and ducking in to steal Tendo’s mug of coffee as he passes him.

“Are you quite finished, Doctor Geiszler?” Pentecost asks, icily polite. Newton grins at him as he sits down next to Hermann.

“Fire away, dude.” He says, and Hermann covers his face as Pentecost’s gaze slides over him before going back to the room at large.

“Would it _kill_ you to show some respect.” He mutters, and Newton shrugs.

“Yeah, maybe. Never tried it.” He says, and offers Hermann his stolen coffee. Glaring, Hermann takes it and places it on the floor by their feet. Newton glares back.

Hermann tries to remember the last time he was this close to Newton. They’re pressed close together, Newton’s elbow on the armrest of his chair as he slouched in his seat. The man is quite literally _radiating_ heat, and Hermann is finding himself equal parts inexplicably charmed and mildly disgusted by how he smells like cigarettes and a week’s worth of not showering. Hermann adjusts himself in his seat, trying to make some distance between them. His hands on the head of his cane are slightly sweaty, and he attempts to tune in to Pentecost’s lecture with little success. Newton spreads out into the new space, and Hermann jabs an elbow in his general direction.

“Could you perhaps stay in your own seat?” He whisper-hisses, and Newton raises his eyebrows at him, level with Hermann’s sternum now he’s slouching so much.

“I don’t see your name on it, my man.” 

“I’m _so_ glad you’ve finally resorted to your inner eighth grader.” Hermann shoots back, and Newton just grins. 

“Are you finished, doctors?” Pentecost booms, and Hermann sits up ramrod straight, embarrassed to be caught bickering like a child with his lab partner.

“Yes, sir. Apologies.” He says, and Newton sniggers next to him. Hermann elbows him sharply in the side, cutting his laugh short.

“Tell me, Hermann, what’s it like that deep in Pentecost’s asshole?” Newton murmurs under his breath, and Hermann rolls his eyes and ignores him.

He’s hard to ignore however, and Hermann isn’t sure whether that’s his problem or whether Newton as a person is just distracting. It didn’t help that he keeps drawing Hermann’s attention with snide comments as he sinks lower and lower into his chair.

[](http://s1266.photobucket.com/user/Alice_Rogers/media/judging%20you_zpsmow9mlud.png.html)

Hermann hates that he’s feeling fond about the man. Objectively, he knows he shouldn’t feel so fond about the food stain on Newton’s threadbare old t-shirt, or the pudge of his stomach as he sprawls in his chair, the way he chews on his nails and speaks too loud when he has something to say. Hell, he knows he should be scandalised that Newton is wearing a stained, ratty t-shirt and jeans that have seen better (and thinner) days with flip flops in a _board meeting_ , but he feels so inexplicably warm about it. God he hates himself, he hates Newton, he hates that he has to bite back a smile when Newton leans into his side and whispers:

“Ten bucks that Pentecost and Hansen are hooking up.”

“Hansen junior or senior?” Hermann murmurs, gaze sliding to the two Australians sitting on the other side of the room. Chuck is digging something out from under his nails with a penknife, and Herc looks about ready to slap it out of his hands. 

“Senior, for sure.” Newton mutters, so warm against Hermann’s side that he wants to take his blazer off. “Junior is fucking the Becket kid.”

“Nonsense.” Hermann says. The meeting fades into a background drone as he wraps himself up in the familiar smell of Newton’s hair and the formaldehyde that always clings to him. His tattooed fingers are beating out a rhythm on his thigh as he bounces his leg in time. 

“You ever seen two people fight like that who weren’t fucking?” He whispers, and his sidelong glance sends a jolt of heat through Hermann’s gut.

“Yes.” Hermann says quietly, holding his gaze until Newton snorts and turns away. 

“Yeah, I guess you have.” He replies, and shoots Pentecost a sarcastic salute as he yells at him for talking again.

\-----

It reaches 50 degrees by lunchtime, and while the rest of Sydney Shatterdome is cool, the lab is like a furnace. As it turns out, the air conditioner is broken and there’s not a lot of rush to fix it, since it’s just the two of them down there. And so, Hermann is working in shirtsleeves for the first time in gods know how long. He’s boiling, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple as he descends his ladder, but he refuses to strip off any more clothes.

“Man, it’s cooler outside.” Newton announces as he makes his way into the lab for the first time that day. Hermann doesn’t turn around, too busy booting up the ancient old computer he’s been petitioning to have replaced for months.

“You’re late.” Hermann says, resisting the urge to slam his hand against the top of the monitor. He can hear Newton opening the freezers behind him, shifting specimens around and setting up his work table.

“I didn’t leave this place until seven a.m,” Newton says, “So if we’re going on hours spent away from the lab, _you’re_ late.”

Hermann swivels in his chair, ready to contest Newton’s newest ridiculousness, but he freezes when he sees what his lab partner is wearing. Low, skinny shorts that have _definitely_ seen better days and truly the most [heinous](http://67.media.tumblr.com/3d9a27edf08d47a03f94e91d9c899193/tumblr_n3wapcwrQq1qa13oio1_500.jpg) and _tiny_ t-shirt Hermann has ever seen on a supposedly grown man.

“You like it?” Newton says with a grin, holding out his hands from his sides when he realises Hermann’s silence is directed at his clothes. “Got it from the weirdest little store in Boston, pretty sure it wasn’t actually real and just one of those places that pop up at five a.m when you’re drunk and are gone the next day.”

“Why is Massachusetts spelt like that?” Hermann asks, and Newton just shrugs. 

“Fuck knows, but the Irish flag colours really go nice with the US flag, huh?”

“It’s utterly indecent.” Hermann snaps, but he can’t seem to turn back to his computer. Newton’s legs are pale and hairy, and Clawhook peeks out from the top of Newton’s boot. Hermann shouldn’t be so transfixed, but that horrendous t-shirt just skims the top of his shorts and Hermann has never been so irritated in his life. “You do know that this is technically a place of work, Newton? Despite how you consistently treat it like your own personal playhouse.”

“Playhouse.” Newton says, pointing at Hermann. “That’s a new one.” The movement of his arm makes the hem of his t-shirt ride up a little, giving Hermann a glimpse of golden waves. He swallows, and turns around sharply so avoid saying something he doesn’t mean to.

He tries to work, after that, but finds his attention span failing him for once. Every time he tries to get back into his research, that strip of tattooed flesh at Newton’s hip rises in his mind and he finds himself incapable of keeping his mind on work. 

Apparently it wasn’t enough for Newton to be an affront to all five senses just by existing as he has for the past five years, now he has to truly test Hermann by wearing that _ridiculous_ outfit all day. Hermann sneaks a glance over his shoulder and closes his eyes in regret at the view of Newton stretching to reach something from a high shelf. The shirt had rode up so far Hermann could see the torso of Ceramander, the pudge of his stomach. Hermann is, with no doubt about it, in his own personal hell.

He goes for a cigarette to escape the lab, and Newton was right, it is indeed cooler outside. Not by much, however, and he rolls up his sleeves as he watches the surf from the rooftop where he and Newton smoke. He tries not to muse on the image of Newton, sweaty and smiling, the softness of his stomach and the vibrant ink Hermann had only ever seen a handful of times. 

“I’ll have you know I’m submitting a formal report to HR concerning your choice of uniform today.” Hermann snaps as he re-enters the lab. Newton, who is hunched over his microscope, looks up at him and frowns. His glasses are pushed up into his hair, and Hermann hadn’t noticed how freckly his face had become in the Australian sun. He swallows thickly.

“What uniform?” Newton asks, and Hermann bares his teeth at him.

“Precisely.” He hisses, and crosses back to his own desk. Newton follows, to Hermann’s great disgruntlement.

“You do know that we don’t have to wear a uniform here, right?” He asks, like he’s concerned Hermann might be truly losing it. “Like, you are aware we’re not in the military.”

“Tell yourself that all you want,” Hermann says coldly, hands poised over his keyboard but not typing. He can’t concentrate on anything but Newton standing so close to him with those summer freckles and tattoos and the smell of his sweat. He might genuinely be losing his mind. “I’m still reporting you.”

Newton’s frown deepens, “Whatever man, like they even listen to you anymore.” He turns on his heel and makes his way back to his desk, and Hermann drags his hand over his face as he watches him go. “I don’t know what’s crawled up your ass today but sort it out.”

“There’s nothing the matter with _me_.” Hermann says, clearing his throat as he watches Newton bend over to squint back down his microscope. “I merely object to having to stare at your naked midriff all afternoon because you seemingly aren’t aware of the concept of growing out of clothes.”

Newton looks up again and flicks his glasses down off his head so he can see. Then he grins, a slow spread, and Hermann feels his face going red as Newton’s eyes crinkle.

“Yeah, okay, dude.” He says, amusement thick in his voice. “Enjoy filing your complaint as much as you’re enjoying staring at my ass.”

Hermann splutters, and Newton grins harder. “Don’t _flatter_ yourself.” He snaps, and turns back to his monitor so he doesn’t have to watch Newton laughing at him. 

When he looks back a few minutes later, Newton is back to his microscope, but his hip is cocked in a way which can only be intentional. Allowing himself a second of acute irritation, Hermann turns back to his computer, pulls up a complaint form and begins typing.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> title from [warm water](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYG3iIcZOkw) by banks, which i really recommend it's very newt/hermann >:^)


End file.
